Feisty Heroines Romance Collection of Shorts

by D. F. Jones

  “Did you want me to fawn over you like Vanessa Kressbauer?”

  “I’m not saying that was right,” he protested. “In fact, I’m admitting I was wrong.”

  “Because she picked you clean when you divorced?”

  “No. Because you have a gift. Your photographs capture the splendor of nature so the rest of us can feel humbled and inspired.”

  She was silent for some time. “You really hurt me.”

  “I know. I’m truly sorry.”

  “Do you have any idea how I felt when Vanessa flaunted her ring at me?”

  “Actually, I do.” He grimaced. “It was the first of the month. Customers formed lines in front of all five tellers. Vanessa marched through the lobby, hurled her wedding ring into my office, and shouted, ‘You’re lousy in bed, too.’”

  “Ouch. She always was a drama queen.”

  “You were never like that.”

  “Never wanted to be.”

  “You wanted to be a well-known photographer.”

  “Respected for my craft. For the images I take.” She blew out a long, slow breath. “I owe you a thank-you.”

  His pulse quickened. In her special, quiet way, Trish had accepted his apology. “For what?”

  “For coming to my graduation.” She patted her camera case. “And for staying close to Nana.”

  “She was very proud of you.” He extended his arm. After some rustling, Trish settled into his embrace and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “She encouraged me to move to New York and spent hours online searching for the just-right first apartment.”

  He didn’t know that, but it didn’t surprise him. Nana wanted the best for her only grandchild. “Are you glad you moved there?”

  “Yes and no. It’s an exciting place to live. So many cultures and cuisines. But it’s easy to be seduced into believing it’s all you need.” She raised a hand and rubbed her eyes. “My city photos are technically good, but they never evoke an emotional response, not like my country landscapes.”

  “Maybe that’s because you grew up around open spaces.”

  “I need to spend more time in places like this.” She yawned. “Sorry. I haven’t slept well the past few nights.”

  He fished his phone from his pants pocket. “I’ll set my alarm for five a.m.”

  “Make it a quarter ’til,” she said sleepily. “We have lots to do tomorrow.”

  Chapter 6

  Late the next afternoon, doubt gnawed the lining of Trisha’s stomach as she aimed her camera at the canyon wall.

  Clouds had blocked the sun’s rays most of the morning. The cliffs might not have absorbed enough light for the embedded ash to glow.

  The composite she’d created from yesterday’s shoot using Mr. Bergstrom’s art class software showed promise. There’d be no blur today, with her camera fixed on a tripod, but a stable camera wouldn’t enhance the otherworldly colors.

  She extended the exposure time so each image would capture more light from the mushroom-shaped hoodoos and took her umpteenth light meter reading. She fussed again with the focus. The entry deadline for this year’s Great American Landscape contest was less than twenty-four hours away.

  “Want some coffee? It’s still hot.” Dalton sat atop a gargantuan boulder holding the gray lid of his thermos.

  “I’m fine.” She needed to reserve her caffeine intake for a sleep-stomping fix around three in the morning. If she’d erred on any of her camera settings, correcting blended image would take most of the night—and there was no guarantee the final image would be good enough for a prestigious contest.

  Shading her eyes, she gazed up at the sky. The sun hadn’t moved much from the last time she’d checked.

  “Lick the lens, then polish it clear,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That was last month’s Outdoor Pro Tip. It keeps your lens from fogging when the temperature drops.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  “No, it’s insurance.” He slid off the boulder and landed on his feet. “Like throwing salt over your right shoulder to ward off evil spirits.”

  “You’re supposed to throw salt over your left shoulder.”

  “Okay.” He set down the thermos, dug in his pocket, and pulled out a white packet of take-out salt. “Throw this over your left shoulder.”

  He set the packet on his open palm and walked up to her. Stood in front of her like a statue. Taunted her with his eyes.

  “You’re nuts, you know that?” Irritated, she snatched the packet, poured salt into her right hand, and tossed it over her left shoulder.

  “Good,” he said. “Now stop worrying. You’ve got this.”

  She blinked. He’d said the exact same thing to her throughout middle and high school to soothe her pre-everything jitters. “Do you really think the rock will light up tonight?”

  “I do. Rocks don’t like change.”

  A laugh bubbled inside her. It tickled her throat like fizz from a soda and burst out of her mouth like a prankster’s burp. Her nerves calmed, leaving only anticipation.

  A few minutes later, the sun sank behind the cliff in front of her camera. The canyon darkened. Shadows formed and melted.

  She drew a cleansing breath, pressed nonstop on her remote, and counted to sixty. The shutter clicked and recorded her opening image.

  The first flashes in the rock resembled fireflies, a spark here, a spark there. More sparks appeared, each adding a flicker until the ash-layered hoodoos glowed neon red and green.

  Dalton came up beside her and hugged her shoulder. “It’s beautiful, like you.”

  Caught up in the moment, she leaned into him and grinned. “Are you comparing me to a hoodoo?”

  “Not any hoodoo. Magical hoodoos that light up my life.” His hand slid down the side of her body, a reminder of the intimacy they’d once shared.

  This wasn’t the right time to discuss rekindling their relationship, though the pressure of his hand on her hip had ignited a dizzying heatwave in her core. She hooked her thumb around a belt loop on his jeans to steady herself. They’d lost their virginity on a night like this, on a blanket under the stars.

  Maybe it was true. You never got over your first love. She never had. From the way Dalton talked and acted, he hadn’t either—but he clocked regular hours at his family’s bank, five days a week. If she won the landscape contest, she intended to take pictures full-time and see if she could support herself on art gallery sales. Location, weather, and sun angles would dictate her schedule.

  Would he fall out of love with her again if she earned her living as a professional photographer? Could they be a couple with completely different lifestyles?

  Her camera shutter clicked, and she forced her focus back to the cliff. The mesmerizing streaks were fading fast.

  Certain she’d already captured enough images to create a winning photograph, she turned toward Dalton, rose up on her toes, and pressed a quick, chaste kiss on his mouth. A thank-you for his help.

  “My turn,” he said.

  Curious, she squared her stance and raised her chin.

  He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers until her heart raced like the wind across an open plain. She waited for him to press hard or pull her close or reach under her jacket to cup her breast, but he didn’t make any of his old moves. He feathered slow, soft kisses over her lower lip as if they had all night.

  Her legs threatened to turn to jelly. “Dalton, we need to pack up my camera.”

  “We will,” he replied. “As soon as you kiss me back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because”—his voice cracked—“this might be the last time.”

  A shiver shook her body. She’d tried her best to forget him and kissed other men, but each time, her heart forced her to admit she still loved him.

  Nana’s cryptic sign-off drifted through her mind. Soon someone will hug you so tight, the pieces of your broken heart will fit back together. Did Nana mean the someone would be Dalt
on?

  Everything he’d said and done since she returned home screamed that he wanted her. So, she wrapped her arms around his neck, shut her eyes, and poured all her past you’ll-come-crawling-back anger and I-can’t-live-without-you tears into a make-or-break kiss.

  He tasted like coffee and protein bar almonds. The sensual scent of sandalwood wafted off his jaw. His hands caressed her hips while she pressed her breasts against his chest. She lost track of time until a sensor on her camera beeped insistently.

  Breathless and giddy, she inched back.

  An unwelcome chill rushed between their bodies.

  “I love you, Trish,” he said huskily. “I’ve always loved you. Work where you want, New York, Nebraska, or Timbuktu, but please take me back. Let me be your home.”

  She had to test him. “I’m keeping my apartment in Brooklyn.”

  “It’ll pay for itself if you Airbnb it when you’re not there.”

  “You sound like an accountant.”

  “I examine lots of tax documents.”

  “I won’t always be on time for dinner.”

  “That’s why they invented microwaves.”

  “Or make it home for breakfast.”

  “Oh, you’re going to want to wake up in bed on Sunday mornings. I put cremini mushrooms, red bell peppers, and Spanish onions in omelets now.”

  She ignored the growl from her stomach. “Photography equipment is expensive, Dalton, and I always want to buy more. My telephoto lens cost eight thousand dollars—with an employee discount.”

  “Trisha Kane Photography will need tax write-offs.” He cupped her face. “I won’t pressure you to marry me. When you’re ready, you’ll ask me.”

  That’s all the assurance I need.

  She hugged him and felt her heart mend. “I love you, Dalton West. Always have, always will.”

  He whooped with joy. The sound reverberated off the canyon walls.

  “Will we be too unconventional for Stevensville?” she asked.

  “Nah. We’ll give the Taylor sisters lots to talk about.”

  Chapter 7

  Four months later, Trisha gave up trying to reason with a photogenic bumblebee that refused to land on the asters Dalton had planted in Nana’s backyard.

  She set her camera on the kitchen table and checked her computer.

  The Brooklyn cleaning service had come and gone. Her incoming Airbnb guest would soon pick up the key to her apartment at the key café.

  She poured herself a glass of iced herb tea. Dalton would be home soon. He had double-dared her into trying one night of square dancing, and now she was an enthusiast. Regular evenings of non-stop do-si-do-ing and promenading made up for some of the city walking she wasn’t doing, living in Stevensville.

  This weekend, they’d drive to Denver. The owner of the Front Range Art Gallery wanted to view the photographs she’d taken over the summer. He might possibly be interested in purchasing one or two.

  A truck door slammed. The cover of the metal mailbox beside the front door opened and closed.

  “Trish! Get out here!”

  Dalton’s bellow rattled the kitchen windows and scared the bejesus out of her.

  She rushed outside. “What’s wrong?”

  He thrust a large, flat manila envelope under her nose. “It’s from the Great American Landscape contest.”

  Her hand shook as she accepted it. A thick college envelope was good news. Thin ones were not.

  She picked repeatedly at the seal. “They really glued this down.”

  He pulled out the pocketknife she’d given him for his birthday and sliced the envelope open.

  She pulled out four sheets of paper.

  “Congratulations! Your photograph, Aliens Among Us, won second place in the Great American Landscape Contest.

  “You and a guest are cordially invited to attend a formal gala in New York City on November 1, where your photograph will be on display during a meet-and-greet with top gallery owners from across the country.

  “Enclosed please find your RSVP, Publicity Release Form, and…” Her voice choked. She pressed the papers to her chest.

  Dalton’s brow pinched with concern. “You okay, Trish? Second place is really good.”

  “Are you kidding? Second place is a dream come true.” She gave him a one-arm hug. “We’ll get you a tux and me a gown when we’re in Denver. Oh, Dalton, you’re going to love eating Thai food in New York City.”

  About Ana Morgan

  When Ana Morgan was small, her dream was to know something about everything. She’s waitressed, driven a school bus route, run craft service on an indie film set, wandered through European castles, wired a house, married a Marine, canned vegetables, and studied the stars. For ten years, she wrote colorful essays about life on her organic farm for her weekly CSA newsletter and succinct cooking directions for her craft-show soup mixes. But she really wanted to write what she loved to read on cold winter nights—passionate romance adventures. Besides a vivid imagination, she has some experience. She and her husband eloped six weeks after they met and moved from southern California to northern Minnesota. They taught themselves to milk cows (at first by hand) and raised three go-getter children. Ana just finished writing a contemporary suspense romance and is about to start Book 3 in her historical western Prairie Hearts Series.

  Check out Ana’s website.

  Register for her newsletter.

  Also by Ana Morgan:

  Stormy Hawkins

  Mary Masters

  Neely’s Big Idea

  Tis the Season

  Déjà Vu on the Seas by Stephany Tullis

  (An Angelica Mason Series Short Story)

  Prologue

  The beginning of the end… Nothing intimidated Ms. Angelica Marie Mason, and she never second-guessed herself. Once she made up her mind, she persevered to the finish. No regrets. Not one iota of remorse even when she impetuously decided to leave her prestigious position at the country’s powerhouse in Washington, DC and return to her childhood home in Smoothville, Georgia. Angelica had learned a lot, enjoyed her experience and made several good friends, including her mentor, Dr. Beckham Johnson. Although Johnson was caught off guard by his protégé’s unanticipated decision, he regretfully accepted her resignation with a commitment to stay in touch. She relied on her designer bookshelf of awards and citations to remind her of her accomplishments and the effectiveness of her “do it my way” lifestyle.

  No one asked, and Angelica felt no need to share how, why, or when she consciously decided to no longer interpret the maneuvers and machinations of DC’s decision makers. As with most other critical lifetime events, the date and details were etched in her mind: Monday, January 1 at 6:00 p.m.

  And on February 1 at 6:45 a.m., instead of heading to the DC Metro, she hopped into her newly financed Audi RS Q3 and drove downtown to another capitol building, Smoothville City Hall. Angelica easily readjusted to small town living without missing a beat, and via a combination of luck, bumping heads with the right people, and her DC experience, she made the perfect landing.

  As with DC, she quickly made a name for herself. Smoothville mayor, Luke Evans, was the first to experience Angelica’s no-nonsense highly effective work style and ethic. No one could convince him otherwise—he had first-hand experience. Angelica Mason “was no joke.” She had more than proved herself when she salvaged him and his election a few years ago from his self-inflicted political wounds. Evans acknowledged to his supporters, friends, and family—even to his public audience—that he’d made some serious mistakes and assured them that he had learned his lessons—the hard way. He promised his mistakes would never be repeated. Little did Angelica know that the Luke Evans she trusted would someday renege on his commitments, including the vow he made to her.

  Two years ago, Angelica’s father, Marshall Mason, who was never sick a day in his life—not even with a bad cold—scared the crapola out of her when he had a massive heart attack. Angelica’s otherwise super sophisticated an
d self-acknowledged bougie mother, Marilyn Mason, hysterically broke the news at 2:00 a.m. from the Savannah General Hospital emergency room.

  By 7:00 a.m., a somber hold on her own emotions, not frightened by much, Angelica was at her father’s bedside, struggling to hold back tears. Her mother sobbed enough for the two of them. Sophistication was no longer on the table. Marilyn’s no makeup appearance made that clear.

  Marshall Mason’s heart attack was much more than Angelica’s first exposure to death. No one had to tell her how ill her father was. “Massive heart attack” was a fully loaded, much-too-commonly-used medical term that didn’t require extensive research to determine the severity of the diagnosis nor the potential impacts. She fought against all those possibilities with every bone in her body, resisting the mind games that played with her emotions.

  The personal strength and stamina that most saw and admired rallied to the forefront. When family friend, Dr. Bryant, met with the family to gravely review Marshall’s health status and prognosis, Angelica did what she knew she had to do.

  Without a second thought, Angelica messaged her boss. “Luke, I need to take a leave of absence.” The mayor honored her request, but she would have quit her job, if necessary. Her father assured her that he’d be okay.

  “Marilyn and I will find a way.” His body language and tone confirmed what she already knew. He’d find a way. But there would be no way that would meet ‘Mother Dear's’ exacting standards—something they both knew. Angelica stepped to the plate. She made a quick trip back to Smoothville, grabbed her laptop, some underwear, toiletries, and sweats and was back in time to drive her parents from the hospital to her home away from home—their recently purchased pre-retirement home.

  She’d just returned from a celebratory dinner with her father where he promised her: no fried chicken, no more than one whiskey on the rocks a month—and only to celebrate something special—to drink more tea than coffee, and renew his gym membership when she got the call. Her long-time colleague, point person, and now good friend Jonathan C. Jarewski—aka JaRew— broke the news.